


Latria

by thankyouandyou



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Memory Palace, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouandyou/pseuds/thankyouandyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I built this temple for you.” Will lies, or perhaps he doesn’t, not entirely. They have begun to blur. “I wait for you to drop the roof on me so you’ll feel powerful.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latria

**Author's Note:**

> Latria, as in λατρεία, meaning worship in Greek.

 

“You defy me,” Hannibal says, in the hush of the church, pacing through the rows of mourners. Black lace and prayerbooks, familiar faces - Will has been tinkering with their shared space. What next - oak leaves and river water, Hannibal thinks. Fishing lines strung pillar to pillar. Will Graham’s untidy version of death. Hannibal is half-tempted to let it happen.

 

“Ever since the day we met.” His own voice is warm, like fingers at the edge of a photograph. Will pulls out of him those strange affections, soft voice and full hands before the blade - but Will’s answering chuckle isn’t a friendly thing. Will often laughs when he hates, when he’s choking on bile.

 

“I deify you,” Will corrects, reproachful. “I-” he starts, and Hannibal savors his halted sentence, the familiar sharp breath between words. Will always speaks as if his teeth are locked, the words refusing to leave his mouth. All I wanted, Hannibal could say, was to loosen that tongue. It would only be lying by omission.

 

“- _blaspheme_.“ Will sighs, shaping the word carefully. “I partake in your flesh and blood and betray you without so much as a kiss.”

 

The last word reverberates through the empty space between them, through silence and sunlight. Like a living thing, a buzzing insect fresh out of the chrysalis that Hannibal could reach out and crush. Centuries above base instinct - and here is good Will, who enjoys taunting the gods. Reminding him and denying him the reality of flesh, of mouths, not-biting. Earthly bodies, breath against breath. As if it means something. Here is cunning Will Graham, broken and remade, playing at things he cannot possibly fathom - and winning.

 

“Rude,” Will says, and he sounds like he’s raising his eyebrows, voice grown youthful in its nerve and victory. It tugs at the corners of Hannibal’s mouth. He stills at the aisle between the rows of pews with his hands in his pockets. He turns to look at Will.

 

On the cross, behind the altar, Will hangs, pale and bloodied. A moth and an idol, nailed to the wood, sprawling on a pin. Suffering and holy. A knife through his cheek and a greedy slash on his forehead. Holes on his chest, knuckles scraped raw. His abdomen, sliced open neatly, blood running down his legs, down the cross, running to Hannibal, a red sea on the mosaic, a come hither, welcome home.

 

Hannibal goes.

 

“I built this temple for you.” Will lies, or perhaps he doesn’t, not entirely. They have begun to blur. “I wait for you to drop the roof on me so you’ll feel powerful.”

 

Hush now, Hannibal wants to say, but doesn’t, always too curious, too hungry. He walks up to the cross. Will’s blood stains his knees when he bends at his feet. He looks up, and their eyes meet.

 

A drop of red lands on Hannibal’s cheekbone.

 

“Tell me,” Will says, smiling now. There is blood on his teeth and Hannibal tastes it, kissing the bone of his ankle. He bares his teeth against the skin. He thinks of mouths, not-biting. Of Will, pinned, but not wriggling.

 

“Dr. Lecter,” Will whispers, close and quiet, like a secret, like a dare. Like saying,  _please_ , and meaning something else entirely.

 

“Do you feel powerful?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some lines from The Lovesong of J.Alfred Prufrock thrown in there, because I am a walking cliché.


End file.
